


This Is The One

by berlynn_wohl



Category: U2
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-11-23
Updated: 2002-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:44:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl





	This Is The One

You didn't mean to look right at them, the way you did. It's just that the door closed so loudly when they came into the lounge, you turned reflexively to see what was making that racket. There's not a lot of sudden loud noise to be had here; the obscenely rich need their peace and quiet.

It would seem that their making so much noise is due to drink having been taken. (The Irish prefer to say "drink was taken," rather than "I got bombed like Pearl Harbor last night.") These two aren't completely out of their respective gourds yet, but when they ask the bartender for two vodkas you wonder if they're on some sort of chalet-crawl. They take their drinks and sit on a sofa in front of the enormous stone fireplace. You remain seated at the bar and try not to look at them again. Wouldn't want them to think you're a fanatic.

You finish your own drink. Coca-cola. You're a teetotaler; you were only at the bar because it increased the likelihood of you catching sight of them. You ask the bartender for another and take it to sit by the fire with. If you get any suspicious glances, you can always tell them there's rum in it.

The chair you sit in has no view of the glorious Alpine scenery, a so-so view of the fire, but an excellent view of the couch. The furniture is some sort of plush hybrid. First it feels to you like rough silk, then velvet, then flannel. Such superfluous luxury makes you uneasy. That blanket, draped in a precisely casual way over the back of the couch, probably cost more than you make in three months.

But it's not really the blanket you're concerned with. As you made your way over, you could only see one head over the back of the couch. And when you seat yourself you see why: Bono has his head in Edge's lap. They're both napping. What a wonderful opportunity for you to stare. And you do, despite your fear that one or both of them is actually awake and watching you, watching them, through slitted eyes. Neither stirs for a long while. You sip your Coke and relax. Watching them is like watching the fire: uneventful and soothing, but with an unimaginable potential for volatility.

Edge wakes but does not open his eyes. His hand was resting atop Bono's head, and now it strokes his hair, which looks like it hasn't been properly maintained; the roots are mostly gray. Edge, in his semi-consciousness, must think they're in the privacy of their suite. He caresses Bono's forehead, his cheekbone, slides one finger over his lower lip. Then he opens his eyes and sees you sitting there. You smile warmly and drink your Coke. After a moment of thought he ultimately decides to smile back, but his hand moves demurely to Bono's shoulder. You avert your gaze, keeping your eyes on the fireplace, knowing that he will want a chance to size you up and determine if you pose any kind of a threat. It would be a shame if they thought of you that way.

"I hope I'm not intruding on anything," you say with sterile politeness.

"Not at all," Edge says.

You have devised a tactic, which will either drive them away or convince them you're harmless. And you've always been a risk-taker. "Pardon me for saying so, but do I know you from somewhere? Something about you is very familiar."

"Well," he says, "you might have heard of me..."

"Oh, I know what it is. It's that voice. You're on television, aren't you?"

He snickers and says coyly, "I've been on television, yes."

  
"Wait, don't tell me...You're a correspondent, for the BBC World News. Aren't you? I knew it."

"Why yes," he nods. "Yes I am." You laugh at his lie, hoping that he thinks you're just gleeful over your correct guess. You tell him you've never met anyone famous before. He says that's unusual, since most people with the money to stay in posh Alpine chalets couldn't get away from well-known people if they tried. He asks what it is that you do. You have to be economical with the truth. If he found out you were a journalist, he'd bolt.

"I'm an heiress," you say, then, ruefully, "to an American meat-processing conglomerate. I don't exactly get to hob-nob at the post-Oscar parties."

Just then Bono stirs, mumbling in his sleep. Edge forgets you for a moment and goes back to stroking his hair. You keep your mouth respectfully shut for a moment as Edge comforts, then you ask, "So how long have you been together?"

He gazes into the middle distance. "Oh, a while now."

"That's nice. It always makes me happy to see couples that have been together for a long time."

Bono twitches. His fists clench and he makes a frightened noise. Edge softly shushes and strokes him. When Bono's whimpering subsides, he explains to you, "He has nightmares."

You regard Bono for a moment, then ask if it wouldn't be better to wake him from it. But Edge shakes his head. "He doesn't like it when I do. He says it makes it worse, it gives him a feeling, like it's not been resolved." Suddenly he relaxes and volunteers more information than you actually asked for. "But that doesn't make much sense to me. It happens so much, I don't know how he believes that letting him dream will bring a resolution."

"That's very sad," you say. "Dreams are supposed to be an escape. What does he dream about?"

"He won't tell me. I've tried asking. But I pick up clues, you know, because he talks in his sleep." Bono clutches Edge's knee and Edge strokes his arm, gently prying the white-knuckled fingers away. "Shh...it's okay..."

Bono, still asleep, says, "No, don't leave me here!"

You are stunned, and ask if Edge is sure it's okay not to wake him up.

"He's been having this one for years," he replies. "I don't know who it is that keeps abandoning him. Sometimes I wonder if he specifically chose a profession that makes him sleep deprived just so he can escape the nightmares."

"Is it like that every night?"

"Not every night. But often."

Bono jerks awake and sits up. He inspects his surroundings with three quick turns of the head, then leans casually on Edge's shoulder. "Nice nap?" Edge asks.

With no irony Bono replies, "Oh, it was very nice."

Edge gives you a knowing look, which says, You see what I mean? Bono points and asks who their new friend is. You tell him your name.

"She's a big fan," Edge says, "of my work as a BBC correspondent."

"Your what?"

Edge puts a hand on Bono's knee. "My friend here is a salesman."

You grin. "I'll say."

"I'm a what?"

You haven't asked their names yet, and decide not to. Edge's already got a hole in his story you could drive a Trabant through. Why would "his friend" be so sleep-deprived if he was just a salesman? Instead, you ask what business he's in.

"He sells ice cubes to Eskimos," Edge says.

Bono has attained full speed now. "But only cubes," he quips, "not those roundish ones. I mean, that would just be silly, wouldn't it. Where's my drink? What time is it?" Edge hands him his vodka and tells him he wasn't asleep very long. "I want to get in the Jacuzzi. Let's get in the Jacuzzi." Bono looks at you. "You can come too if you like, since you're our friend now." He stands up and holds out his hand to you.

****

You'd already been in the Jacuzzi once, the one just off the lounge, hoping to run into them. But it turns out they've got their own private Jacuzzi, in their suite. You must take a detour to get your bathing suit, so they tell you what room they're in, and when you arrive, wrapped in a dressing gown, you barely touch the door with your knuckles and it opens up. There is no one there. You shut the door quietly behind you and follow a trail of clothes to find them, already well-relaxed in the steamy Jacuzzi, with a bottle of vodka, no glasses, between them.

"Ah, there you are." Bono sits up. His hair is wet and slicked back, which brings out his eyes and his smile. "We were just arguing about whether you'd actually show up. You look very smart and I figured you might think better of jumping into a hot tub with two strange men." He takes a swig from the vodka bottle.

"Oh, don't be fooled," you say, doffing your dressing gown. "I'm actually quite naive."

"I'm told you're a slaughterhouse heiress," Bono says as you settle yourself in the tub. "You don't act like an heiress."

"No heiress acts like one anymore."

"Heh. Fair enough. What's the name of this conglomerate?"

They're on to you. You give them your last name and add "Industries" to the end.

"Never heard of it."

"Well, why would you have? You don't seem like the type who studies up on packing meat."

"You'd be surprised," Bono says, and Edge does a spit take, snorting vodka into the water, with tears in his eyes from laughter.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have worded it that way," you mumble.

They offer you a drink from their bottle, but you decline. If there was ever anything you wanted to be completely sober for...

Bono neglects the vodka as well, in favor of playful chatter, but Edge is still taking regular nips, and ostensibly maintaining his composure while he's at it. When there is a lull in the conversation, Bono reaches back for the bottle and finds it's nearly empty. "Jesus." He turns to you. "I don't know where he puts it. I mean, I can drink, right? But this guy could drink me under the fuckin' table."

Edge laughs and says, "Even if you were stone sober, you'd get under the table anyway, to suck my cock."

Bono holds up his hand and opens his mouth to make a point, but pauses. "...No, no, can't argue with that one. He's got a really nice cock. Show her your cock, Edge. It's first-rate. You know they can be really ugly, but I like his. Show it to her."

"I don't think so."

"Go on! Show her your cock, I dare you."

"What are you, fourteen?" Edge grabs the vodka bottle, swallowing the last of it. Then he stands up, reaches into his trunks, and pulls out his wedding tackle, but just for a second, barely enough time for you to see it. He puts it away and sits back down in the water. His face is red; you can't tell if it's embarrassment, the heat, or the alcohol.

"Isn't it nice?" Bono asks. Yes, you nod, it's very nice. "Oh, but you're an American, aren't you?" As if that weren't obvious from your tuneless accent. "She probably wouldn't like ours because we're not circumcised."

"Oh, well that's not true," you say matter-of-factly. "I mean, I've kicked guys out of bed for a lot of reasons, but that's not one of them." Just then you think of a joke. You ask them if they want to hear it. Why ask? Does anyone ever really say, "No, I don't want to hear a joke"?

"Okay, what do you call that useless piece of flesh at the end of a penis?" Appropriate pause. "A man."

They both crack up, which doesn't give you any particular satisfaction, seeing as how they're both so given to fits of laughter right now, it wouldn't matter if you were telling a joke or reciting Wordsworth.

Bono abruptly asks for silence. He reaches out a hand underwater, to the left of him, and seems to have found something. He scoots over, slowly, a look of solemn concentration on his face, seemingly trying to find something without the benefit of visual assistance. He keeps moving left until an expression of pure, if comical, ecstasy crosses his face. He's found one of the hot-water jets. You hardly have time to speculate exactly what that water is pulsing against before Bono moans, "Oh Edge, kiss me." Edge obliges him, clutching a broad shoulder in one hand and the vodka bottle in the other as they make their first overtly sexual display of affection in your presence. Their mouths are wide open as they snog, and you can see their tongue-play. Bono raises himself up, trying to get more action out of the hot-water jet. Just about the time you start to think that now would be a great time for a drink from that vodka bottle, they stop. Bono averts his eyes and smiles bashfully. "Sorry. Got a little excited."

"That's okay," you say. "So did I."

They settle back, giving one another a last look, and you jump through the door they've just opened. "So, which one of you is...I mean, who's in charge?"

"He is," they both say at the same time.

"It's always about what _he_ wants to do," Edge says. "It never matters whether I feel like it or not."  
Bono snorts. "That's nothing. I'll prove to you that he's the one in charge. Let me show you what he makes me do." With an urgency that suggests he's been waiting for an excuse to do so, he yanks off his trunks and stands up. He holds his balls in his hand. "Look, I'm not even allowed to have any fuckin' hair on my balls!" And indeed, his scrotum is bare. You examine him, surprised only that the equipment he's displaying is not made of brass.

"Do you shave them?"

"No, I use that stuff, what's it called? It's like lotion, you slather it on. It smells awful. But he won't lick my balls if I don't do it." Edge tells you it's all a matter of practicality; he doesn't like getting hairs caught in his teeth. But Bono has not lost his incredulity on this matter. "I ask him if we can play 'Pride' in a different key and he thinks I'm crazy. Then he turns round and tells me I've got to depilate my undercarriage."

Edge's face scrunches up in an attempt not to laugh. "How long did you spend with your thesaurus before you came up with that one?"

"What about you?" you ask Edge. "Do you have to do anything for him?"

Edge is smug. "I don't have to do anything I don't want to."

"Thankfully," Bono says, "I know how to make him want to do things." He starts to get out of the tub. "I'm going to get another bottle." Edge grabs Bono by the wrist and yanks him back in.

"Don't do that. You've had enough. I don't want you to get too drunk to fuck."

"In all the time you've known me, have I ever been too drunk to fuck?"

Everything sounds like a secret they couldn't wait to reveal. Was this all really spontaneous? Or were you hand-picked? Perhaps, knowing you would be oblivious to it, they had exchanged a pre-determined signal: Yes, this is the one, let's do it in front of her. You were so stealthy, weren't you, with your little plan of action. But it turns out that all along they had plans of their own for you.  
"So where do you want to watch?" Edge asks you dryly.

"Excuse me?"

"Do you want to watch us do it in here, or would you prefer we all go into the bedroom?"

"Well, I..."

Bono interrupts. He doesn't want to have to get up and dry off and do all that just so they can fuck. But Edge says he'd prefer not to do it in the Jacuzzi, because the water washes the lube away and makes it more difficult. You lean back and wait patiently for the resolution to their rather lengthy argument about the various merits and disadvantages of sex in a hot tub.

"But when we get out we'll be all cold and shivery and by the time we get in bed we'll have to start the foreplay all over again!" Bono says this like it'd be the end of the world.

"You have something against foreplay?" you ask.

Bono remembers himself, straightens up, and says, "Of course not, darlin', but..."

"He's just lazy is all it is." Edge looks at his fingertips. "I'm too wrinkly to get turned on in here, anyway. Come on, Bono, if you don't get out we're leaving you behind." He takes your hand and helps you out of the tub.

"You wouldn't."

Edge raises an eyebrow to Bono, takes you in his arms, and leans in for a kiss, his lips almost touching yours, but not quite. Steam rises from your bodies. Perhaps not entirely from the hot water. When you first saw him in person, he was smaller than you imagined him to be, but when he holds you, you can feel how strong he is. You wait for him to kiss you, but he won't. Instead he turns his head to look at Bono, who's a bit panicked. "No, no, no, you belong to me tonight," Bono says, and stumbles out of the tub. Edge lets you go and fetches towels for everyone.

****

Entering the bedroom, it's all about you for a minute. Are you comfortable? Shall we turn the heat up? Can we get you anything? You didn't bring any clothes with you to change into, so Bono lends you some of his: pyjama bottoms and a black t-shirt. Though newly laundered, they are steeped in Bono-scent, and you hope that at the end of the evening you can abscond with them somehow.

There is a loveseat opposite the bed. The haphazard arrangement of the surrounding furniture suggests that they moved it there earlier in the day specifically for their nefarious purposes. They ask you to sit. The bed is piled high with excessive pillows and comforters which they strip away, until it's just them, cuddling, on a mattress like a blank canvas. And you're sitting there on the loveseat like you're getting ready to watch a bleedin' football match.

Bono likes Edge's hands. Whatever part of him Edge touches, Bono leans, turns, twists to push it more firmly against Edge's palm. Which is making it difficult for Edge to lay Bono down on the bed. When he pushes down, Bono pushes up. His only hope is to disable Bono with a penetrating kiss, a flick of the tongue over smooth pink lips, a firm hand clutching the dropped jaw. Bono soon finds himself unable to push back. But when Edge lets up for a split second, Bono turns and looks right at you. He says to Edge, in a stage whisper, "Psst! Hey, don't look now, but...there's a girl in here!" He breaks into a fresh fit of giggles.

Edge sighs. "How am I supposed to fuck you when you're acting like this?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he says with no sincerity.

"Are you sure it's okay for me to watch?" you ask.

"It's cool, really, don't mind me," Bono says.

You can sympathize with Edge. You wish Bono would just shut up so they could get on with it. "Try to pretend I'm not here," you say.

Bono looks around the room, then at Edge. "Did you hear something?"

Edge shakes his head.

They seem to be involved in some sort of ritual now. As Edge begins kissing his way down Bono's chest, Bono pushes him away, just a bit, and begs in a practiced manner, "Tell me how sexy I am."

"Of course you're sexy," Edge says. A little less than patiently, he works his way back up to Bono's ear and whispers, "Just looking at you makes me so hot I can hardly stand it. When I hear your voice, when I see your body, I just lose control." He resumes; his hands slide over Bono's stomach. His mouth moves down to take a nipple between his lips. His kisses are lighter and quicker. Bono stops him again, wriggling out of his grasp.

"Tell me how good it feels to be inside me."

Edge follows this elusive movement, taking Bono's cock in his hand and stroking it while nipping at his ear again. "You know it's all I can think about," he mutters. "All day long, I can't wait to get you alone so I can get close you, so I can spread your legs..."

Apparently Edge has passed the test. Bono rolls over and gets on his hands and knees, his legs spread so his belly almost touches the mattress. Edge strokes Bono's flanks and whispers, "How do you want it tonight, gentle or rough?"

"Gentle first, then rough."

"You say that every time."

"And yet you continue to ask."

You are not very knowledgeable about what they're about to do. You ask, "How exactly do you do something like that gently?"

Edge opens the nightstand drawer and pulls out a tube of something. "It helps to havea lot of this," he says, and squeezes some out to apply to Bono and himself before he penetrates.

At first, you kind of wish they'd go back to just kissing. What they're doing now doesn't look very sexy, and it sounds like Edge is hurting Bono. But once they get a rhythm going, you begin to see the appeal. They go at like animals, inarticulate and free of thought. Bono groans, arching and flexing his back. He brings his shoulders to the mattress, then raises himself up on straightened arms. "Deeper," he cries. "More, faster!" Edge does his best to comply, but his attempt to bring Bono closer to orgasm results, more swiftly, in his own climax, which makes him suddenly noisy and wild. He rams Bono and hollers three or four obscenities, then slowly regains a weakened version of his earlier composure.

"I didn't finish," Bono whinges.

"Come here, I'll help you finish," Edge says hoarsely. He grabs a pillow off the floor so he can lean comfortably against the headboard. Bono leans against him, back to front, and Edge slides a hand down to grasp Bono's twitching erection. Bono rubs his balls while Edge jerks him off and removes one silver hoop earring with his free hand, sucking the unadorned lobe between his lips for a moment. Then he murmurs, "Here, you do it, okay? And I'll hold you." He wraps both arms around Bono's ribcage while Bono touches himself. Bono likes this; the way he strains against Edge's unyielding grip as he brings himself off is playful and exaggerated. Edge holds him tighter and tighter, and whispers things into his ear that you can't hear. Bono's body arches one last time, defying Edge's clasp, and then goes limp. Edge gently strokes his forehead and shushes him.

Then, they're so still, you suspect that they've fallen asleep. You're afraid to move. It's so quiet. You don't want to leave. Perhaps they wouldn't mind if you camped out on their sofa tonight. But just when you're ready to stretch out, Edge opens one eye. He smiles and says, "You still here?"  
"I'll go if you want."

"No, don't go. You can't just leave us here like this." As though you were integral to their activities. "Do you think you could do me a favor? Could you bring me a flannel from the bathroom? I'd do it myself but as you can see I've got this slumbering lummox on top of me."

You are happy to oblige, and he takes the flannel from you to clean Bono up with. "And do you think," he asks, "you could bring a couple of those blankets up for us?"

Despite a vague feeling that you're suddenly being treated as a servant, you lay a sheet and a comforter across the bed, smiling despite yourself as they fall lightly onto Bono's sleeping body.

"And would you do just one more thing?" Edge pats the mattress next to where he is reclining. "Would you join us?"

"You ask so much of me," you say as you climb under the covers. You try to keep a considerate distance, but Edge puts an arm around you and pulls you close. He presses his nose to your shoulder.

"You smell like him now," he says, touching the fabric of the shirt you're wearing.

You see the last of Bono's sex-flush fade from between his collarbones. Edge's skin still glows with sweat and exhausted post-coital satisfaction.

"Are you going to be able to sleep with him on top of you like that?" you ask.

"Oh, eventually he'll wake up a bit and roll over to his side of the bed. I just stay up 'til then. Think about things. Sometimes I can reach the remote control. It's nice to have some company now, though."

There are a hundred questions you want to ask: Why did they do this? How did they choose you? Do they do this often? But you don't ask because you aren't sure you want to know the answers. Instead you observe: "He liked it when you were holding him down."

"Yeah." Edge attempts unsuccessfully to shift under Bono's weight. "He doesn't really hear the word 'No' a lot in daily life, so it's a novelty for him to be refused, or restrained. He likes me to tie him up, blindfold him, fight him off, threaten never to touch him again. But I'm sure if he thought for a moment that I was serious, he wouldn't have as much fun with it."

"So when he made you tell him those things...That was just a game?"

Edge's pause tells you that there is no simple answer to that, but he tries anyway. "He's very insecure. But he knows he's insecure, and he likes to twist it around. So it's like, 'I don't NEED you to reassure me, I'm ORDERING you to."

"Is it different for you when someone is watching?" you ask.

"Of course. There's more pressure to have a good time. When it's just the two of us in private, we know that there's nights when its great and nights when it's not so great, and we put it in perspective. But if we had an off night tonight, you would think it was always like that, and we don't want to leave you with the wrong impression."

"But tonight did turn out to be a pretty good one, right?"

"I don't know, did it?"

"Oh, I'd say so." When the words leave your mouth you hear how lecherous they sound, and cringe inside.

As Bono falls more deeply asleep, he inches deeper under the covers. His head, at first tucked awkwardly under Edge's chin, is now resting on his sternum, and rises and falls with each of Edge's breaths.

"I'm not really an heiress," you say.

"I know," says Edge.

"And I was aware from the beginning that you're not a BBC correspondent."

"I know."

"But, I'm not going to tell anyone about this."

"I know."

Bono stirs. In his sleep, he groans and tosses his head back and forth. "No," he says. "Don't..." His back arches until you can see the delineation of his ribcage. As you watch him you wonder why Edge isn't comforting him, like before, until you look up into his eyes and see him looking right back at you. So you reach out to stroke Bono's forehead with your fingertips.

"Shh," you say. "It's alright."


End file.
